


twenty-four hours

by jehans



Series: it's for you [28]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:46:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehans/pseuds/jehans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac and Jehan request an uninterrupted twenty-four hours for their first anniversary, so of course all hell breaks loose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	twenty-four hours

It’s February 15th, the day after the protest gone wrong, that Courfeyrac pulls Enjolras aside after one of their meetings.

“I need to talk to you about something,” he says in an uncharacteristically low voice.

“Yes?” Enjolras asks attentively.

Courfeyrac wets his lips, like he’s nervous about whatever it is he’s going to say. “Jehan and I are about to have our first anniversary,” is what comes out.

“Yes,” Enjolras answers when he doesn’t keep going, “I’m aware.”

“And we both really want it to be special,” Courfeyrac continues, “and we — and _I_ really want to give my boyfriend everything he deserves. Which is like. . .everything.”

“Courfeyrac, you wanted to ask me something,” Enjolras says, anxious to get to the point.

“Well not so much ask, as tell,” Courfeyrac says.

This raises Enjolras’ curiosity, and his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“We need the whole day,” Courfeyrac finally tells him directly. “All of it, nobody calls us, nobody bothers us. Grantaire will stay with you at our place and I’m going to be at Jehan’s. Nobody comes over, nobody tries to call us or text us or email us or send us goddamn smoke signals, we are to be left alone, all right?”

Enjolras hesitates. The night of the protest uncovered more corruption surrounding the police force than they were aware of. They’re in a crucial time of potential exposure, here, and Courfeyrac and Jehan are two important members of the group that Enjolras is just not sure he can be without for that long. “All day?” he asks hesitantly.

“Twenty-four hours,” Courfeyrac responds, nodding

Enjolras sputters “Twenty-four — ?!”

“Midnight to midnight,” Courfeyrac interrupts firmly. “Radio silence.”

“Courfeyrac, we are in the middle of something pretty important here, I don’t know if I can spare you for twenty four hours.”

Courfeyrac takes a breath and wets his lips again, seeming to decide whether or not to say something. When he does, it’s in a low, quiet voice, and all in a rush. “Enjolras, I’m only going bring this up this one time, and then I’ll never mention it again, because Jehan and I both knew what we were getting into and we made that choice and I don’t want you to think we blame you, but. . .on our first Valentine’s Day together we went to a protest for you and we were arrested and Jehan — _my_ Jehan, my _love_ — got his face kicked in. And he’s still bruised and his skin is still broken. We gave you our Valentine’s Day. Give us our anniversary.”

Enjolras sighs. There’s truth there, and he can hardly argue with it. The cuts and bruises on Jehan’s delicate little face have struck him, too. “Fine,” he relents. “Midnight to midnight.”

The smile Courfeyrac gives him is _almost_ worth it.

 

The next night, Enjolras specifically asks Courfeyrac and Combeferre to stay overtime at the meeting they had scheduled just the three of them, since he knows he’s about to lose Courfeyrac and Jehan for a full day and therefore probably get nothing done (he could work solely with Combeferre, but for some reason the two of them can never come up with the same calibre of ideas that they all can when Courfeyrac is there, too).

So Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Enjolras are all still at the café at 11:50, when Jehan shows up and lingers in the doorway at the top of the stairs.

“Prouvaire do you need something?” Enjolras calls up at him

“It’s almost midnight,” he responds simply, and Courfeyrac turns to beam up at him.

Enjolras sighs a bit. He’s happy for his friends, but he has _work_ to do. “It’s ten till,” he says.

Jehan smiles sweetly. “I’ll wait.”

And he does. Until the second the clock hits midnight when Courfeyrac, mid sentence, drops the pen he’s been gesturing with onto the table, turns, and bounds up the stairs to catch Jehan up in his arms and kiss him far too enthusiastically for right in front of his friends.

He doesn’t say another word to Combeferre and Enjolras, and Jehan only manages a little wave of farewell before Courfeyrac is whisking him away back to Jehan’s apartment.

It’s only a five minute walk, and they’re practically skipping.

The second they’re inside, Courfeyrac is sweeping Jehan up into his arms and kissing him, careful to avoid the bruises and cuts that still mark his face and arms. But evidently Jehan doesn’t want him to be careful because he’s dragging his fingernails down Courfeyrac’s neck and sucking on his bottom lip to worry it between his teeth until Courfeyrac moans.

“Jesus Christ, Jehan,” he says against his boyfriend’s mouth.

“I’ve been waiting way too long for you,” Jehan growls, biting down on Courfeyrac’s lip. “We’re barely had time together lately and I’ve been waiting and waiting and now I want you —” he says calmly, interrupting himself to press a sweet little kiss into Courfeyrac’s neck, “— to fuck me —” another kiss to the other side of his neck as Courfeyrac gasps, “— against the wall. Right now.” Jehan purrs the last two words directly into Courfeyrac’s mouth before kissing him lightly there while Courf tries to recover from the shock of hearing his little poet demand that he _fuck him_ (and how _absurdly hot that is_ ).

Courfeyrac sputters as Jehan keeps pressing kisses into his jaw and throat. “You want me to —”

“Fuck me against the wall, that’s right,” Jehan murmurs.

“But —” he’s cut off by a much hungrier kiss that leaves him dizzy when Jehan pulls away. “But you’re injured,” he protests weakly. “You’re all marked up.”

Jehan’s lips against his ear make him shiver. “Mark me more,” he hisses and Courfeyrac is putty. He dives forward to attack Jehan’s pretty neck, swinging him around and backing him up until they both bump against the wall and then crushing him there.

Jehan kicks off his shoes as he shoves Courfeyrac’s coat off of his shoulders, gasping when Courf’s teeth scrape against the tender flesh of his throat. “I fucking love you,” he breathes out quickly on the exhale, his fingers grasping for the hair at the nape of Courfeyrac’s neck.

Courfeyrac turns his head and starts mouthing at Jehan’s right forearm, but jerks away suddenly when Jehan hisses.

“ _Sorry!_ ” he gasps, trying to pull away from the bruises he nicked with his teeth, but Jehan yanks him back, pressing his nose to the side of Courfeyrac’s face, his hands tight in Courfeyrac’s hair.

“Don’t be sorry,” Jehan whispers. “I like it. I _want_ it. Mark me, Courfeyrac. If you’re fire, I want to be burned.”

“I don’t want to burn you, though,” Courfeyrac protests, leaning in to Jehan’s face against his and brushing a kiss to his cheek.

Jehan leans back against the wall and takes Courfeyrac’s face in his hands, kissing his nose on his way back. “I’m not made of glass,” he whispers, fixing Courfeyrac with a steady gaze. “I want to _feel_ you on every inch of me. I _need_ you, my love. I _want_ you. I _must have you now_. Is that all right with you?”

A breathy laugh escapes Courfeyrac. “Yes,” he sighs. “That is fucking all right with me.”

Jehan’s smile up at him is blinding until he pulls himself up to drag his teeth down the full line of Courfeyrac’s jaw as he fumbles with Courf’s bow tie. Courfeyrac sucks on Jehan’s neck as he languidly removes the little poet’s pants. Teeth and tongues and lips pull and drag and press at tender skin as layer after layer of clothing is removed, as Jehan hoists himself up, wrapping his legs around Courfeyrac’s naked torso and Courfeyrac’s fingers indent into the skin under his thighs, as skin against skin and heart against heart they move through each other, moaning and growling and whispering words of love and of lust and of desperation.

Jehan bites down on Courfeyrac’s shoulder as he comes, licking at the salt of his sweat, and Courfeyrac collapses into him, panting, one hand flush against the wall to keep his balance, the other still gripping tight under Jehan’s thigh. Jehan starts showering his face and neck and shoulder with kisses.

“Happy anniversary,” he breathes into Courfeyrac’s ear.

“I love you so goddamn much,” Courfeyrac responds breathlessly.

They make it into the bedroom just after that, but it’s a while before they sleep. At some point, Jehan is lying on his back, fully exposed, as Courfeyrac trails lazy kisses along his chest and stomach and hip bones.

“I can’t believe it’s been a year,” Jehan breathes, suppressing a shiver as Courfeyrac’s lips skim along his pelvis.

Courfeyrac chuckles against his skin. “I feel like I’ve loved you for my whole life,” he says.

Jehan laughs out loud at that. “You haven’t,” he assures his love and Courfeyrac looks up to glare at him.

“I _feel_ like I have,” he insists, then pulls himself up until he’s weighing, length to length, on top of Jehan and their noses almost brush. “It’s like my whole entire life was leading up to loving you,” he breathes. “Why did it take us so long?”

Jehan’s fingers come up to brush his face, then slip into his hair. “We weren’t ready for each other for a while,” he says softly, carding those fingers through Courfeyrac’s unruly hair and making him purr. “You were sleeping with _everyone_ and I was trying to figure out if it was okay to be who I am.” He pauses, then asks thoughtfully, “Do you ever miss it?”

“Miss what?” Courfeyrac asks, closing his eyes at the lovely feeling of being pet by his love.

“Sleeping with everyone.”

Well, his eyes open at that, and he scoffs. “I _never_ slept with _everyone!_ ” he protests and Jehan grins.

“You know what I mean. Do ever you miss it?”

“Are you kidding?” Courfeyrac asks. “Don’t you know my lover is a _firecracker?_ ” Jehan goes bright red and ducks his smile into his own shoulder, covering his face with one hand. “Plus,” Courfeyrac adds, grinning back, “I get laid _all the time_. And I love him,” he finishes warmly. “Nah, this is much better. I don’t miss it.”

 

Enjolras is aware that twenty-four hours without Courfeyrac and Jehan means more than just twenty-four hours without two of his lieutenants — it means twenty-four hours without the two members of their group who truly understand people and interpersonal relationships. Enjolras is the one you call when a governmental figure needs overthrowing, Combeferre is the one you call when you’re in the hospital, but Courfeyrac is the one you call when you need somebody to cry to. Which means, if someone has some sort of personal crisis that doesn’t involve politics or the hospital in the next twenty-four hours, they’re screwed.

Which is why, when Enjolras’ phone rings at 2am, his heart freezes for a moment before he answers.

Beside him in his bed, Grantaire lets out a sleepy groan and tightens the arm that’s draped over Enjolras’ waist. “Don’t answer,” he murmurs, turning his head to press lazy lips against Enjolras’ ribs without opening his eyes.

“I have to,” Enjolras answers, glancing at his phone. It’s Joly. As he answers, Grantaire lets out another little groan, so he lightly trails a finger up and down his bare spine to placate him. “Hello?”

“I can’t get a hold of Courfeyrac,” Joly says in a panic.

“No,” Enjolras answers, “he and Jehan are not to be disturbed for the next twenty-two hours.”

“Why?!” Joly demands wildly.

“It’s their anniversary,” Enjolras explains, while Grantaire shouts from beside him, his voice muffled by Enjolras’ side, “They’re having sex!” Enjolras slides his hand up into Grantaire’s hair in an attempt to silence him.

“Well I need him,” Joly is saying.

“Can I help?” Enjolras asks.

“No.”

Somehow Grantaire hears that and starts chuckling, his face still smushed up against Enjolras. Enjolras flicks him between his shoulder blades.

“Maybe try calling Combeferre, then,” Enjolras suggests. “He’s a good listener, too.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Joly says reluctantly.

“Can you not talk to Bossuet?”

“No.” Joly says firmly.

“All right, Combeferre, then.”

Joly sighs. “Yeah, okay,” he says and then hangs up.

Enjolras frowns at his phone in confusion.

“What was wrong?” Grantaire asks groggily. 

“I have no idea,” he replies softly, so Grantaire tugs at him.

“Come down here,” he mumbles.

Enjolras looks down at him. “I’m right here,” he says.

“Well I want you down _here_ ,” Grantaire argues, finally cracking an eye open to look at him. His gaze is challenging, petulant, and absolutely dizzying.

So Enjolras complies, for once, placing his phone on the table next to him and scooting down under the sheets until he’s lying down fully, with Grantaire pressed up beside him, pulling him closer and closer until they’re tangled in each other, forehead to forehead and nose to nose. Grantaire sighs happily and Enjolras can’t help but smile at the gust of hot air and blows over his face.

And then his phone rings again.

“Noooo,” Grantaire whines, slipping his arms all the way around Enjolras to hold him tightly. “Mine.”

“I have to answer it,” Enjolras says resignedly. “It could be an emergency.”

“Just because Courfeyrac gets a whole day off in order to sex up Jehan,” Grantaire complains, pressing his face into the slope of Enjolras’ shoulder, “shouldn’t mean that I lose _my_ boyfriend to the needs of this world.”

And Enjolras winces at that, because Grantaire is _always_ losing his boyfriend to the needs of this world, and Enjolras knows it. So when he manages to wriggle away enough to reach out for his phone and check to see who’s calling him (Bossuet), he answers just long enough to say, “Call Combeferre,” then hangs up, switches his phone to silent, and drops it off the side of his bed.

The look shock and delight Grantaire gives him makes his heart ache, and he silences it by pressing his lips violently to his boyfriend’s, shifting them both until he’s lying on top of Grantaire, who gasps into his mouth.

“Jesus, Enjolras,” he breathes as the golden boy starts trailing kisses down his neck and collarbone. 

But Enjolras doesn’t respond. Because Grantaire may always be losing him to the needs of this world, but tonight he won’t. Tonight, Enjolras is determined to show him exactly how important he actually is.

 

When Jehan wakes up with Courfeyrac draped over his body, legs hooked around his legs, mouth pressed up against his neck, he actually feels sore. Not too badly, and he wonders if part of it is because of his Valentine’s Day wounds, but he’s a little sore nonetheless.

He and Courfeyrac didn’t fall asleep until late into the night. Neither really wanted to waste even an hour of their precious alone time on sleeping, but after the night they had together, completely surrounded by each other, eventually exhaustion had won.

Now it’s 10am and Courfeyrac is breathing deeply against Jehan’s neck. Jehan smiles fondly, raising the arm that’s not trapped by Courfeyrac’s body to rub the sleep out of his eyes. Then he starts kissing Courfeyrac’s forehead and face until Courfeyrac snorts and wakes.

“Morning,” Jehan breathes.

“Morning?” Courfeyrac asks groggily, peering around at the light.

Jehan kisses his forehead again. “Uh huh,” he says. “And we still have fourteen hours all to ourselves with no interruptions.”

Courfeyrac grins. “You realize that we don’t have to get dressed at _all_ today, right?” he asks delightedly.

Jehan laughs. “Except I fully expect you to take me out at some point,” he argues. “It is our anniversary.”

“Really?” Courfeyrac asks, pulling himself up to press his sleepy lips against Jehan’s. “Where am I taking you?” he murmurs.

“Hmm,” Jehan sighs (Courfeyrac has started running his tongue along the line of his jaw). “Maybe that café?” he asks, lighting up. “The one with the _really good_ cupcakes?”

Courfeyrac grins at him. “And the macarons?”

Jehan nods.

“The one that _just so happens_ to be on the opposite side of town and therefore makes it unlikely for us to run into any of our friends?” Courfeyrac presses.

Jehan’s smile turns knowing. “You don’t think I’m actually going to _share_ you with anyone today, do you?” he asks. “I am entirely too selfish for that.”

“Cupcakes and macarons it is,” Courfeyrac says, going back to pressing kisses into the space behind Jehan’s ear.

“But first,” Jehan breathes, “shower.”

Courfeyrac’s grin is wild when he kisses Jehan’s mouth and leaps up, dragging him toward the bathroom.

 

Combeferre is not delighted with the recent turn his life has taken.

He was up until five in the morning trying to work through the fight Bossuet and Joly had had, on the phone with them individually. It hadn’t even been a very big fight, but the two of them are so in sync they just don’t _have_ fights so they had no idea how to handle it. And Combeferre, being the only one of the three the group sort of considered their “leaders” to not have a significant other in bed with him who wanted his attention, had suddenly become a sort of marriage counsellor to his not-married friends. Until _five in the morning_.

And now it’s ten, and there’s a very persistent rapping on his door.

He rolls out of bed and shuffles for the door. Feuilly is standing there, hair and eyes both wild.

“Yes?” Combeferre asks sleepily because he is Combeferre, not Enjolras, and even though he’s had about four and half hours sleep and has been left alone to take care of the kids without warning, he never answers the door with an impatient, “What?”

Feuilly stares at him for a second. “Why can’t I talk to Courfeyrac today?” he asks desperately.

Combeferre squints at him and reaches up to run one eye. “What?” he asks, confused. “Please explain.”

“I went to Courfeyrac’s,” Feuilly begins, “and there was a note on the door that said, ‘ _Do not fucking disturb before midnight exactly_ ’ and I need to talk to him, why can’t I talk to him?”

“It’s his and Jehan’s anniversary,” Combeferre yawns.

“So I can’t talk to Courfeyrac because he’s busy fucking Jehan?!” Feuilly practically shrieks and Combeferre decides it’s time to take this conversation out of the public hallway and steps back to let Feuilly inside.

“All right,” Combeferre says, gesturing for Feuilly to sit on the couch while he goes to make coffee, “what’s wrong?”

“I can’t talk to _you_ about it,” Feuilly groans, flopping down on the couch.

“Why not?” Combeferre asks patiently.

Feuilly huffs. “It’s a Courfeyrac problem,” he says decisively. “It’s not a Combeferre problem.”

Combeferre looks up at Feuilly as the coffee pot drips. “What the hell is the difference between a Courfeyrac problem and a Combeferre problem?” he asks.

“A Combeferre problem,” Feuilly sighs laboriously, “is like, ‘I don’t have a place to stay tonight,’ or ‘Oops, I accidentally cut off my toe.’ A Courfeyrac problem is what I have.”

“‘Oops, I accidentally cut off my toe?’” Combeferre demands.

“No one’s ever come to you with that one?”

“No!”

“You know, that actually surprises me,” Feuilly remarks as Combeferre brings him a mug of coffee. “Oh god, thank you,” he says, grabbing at it like it’s some sort of life force.

Combeferre watches him guzzle it, ignoring the heat of the coffee. “So this isn’t a Combeferre problem then,” he says more than asks.

Feuilly shakes his head.

“And you don’t want to talk about it at all?”

Feuilly winces. “Not really,” he says almost apologetically.

Combeferre nods. “That’s fine,” he says. Then, when Feuilly doesn’t move, he asks, “Do you want to hang around here for a while?”

Feuilly looks at him. “Do you mind?” he asks tentatively.

“Not at all,” Combeferre answers, standing and putting his coffee mug on the coffee table. “I’m going to take a shower, the television’s all yours, don’t smoke in here.”

And he leaves Feuilly alone to sulk in his living room.

 

Jehan breathes deeply, leaning back into Courfeyrac’s chest as his eyes close and he feels the sharpness of cold air spinning through his nasal passages. It’s a delightful contrast to the warmth of Courfeyrac, wrapped around him, his head leaned against Jehan’s. After the café, Courfeyrac bought them two more coffees (a café latte for himself and a mochaccino for Jehan) to go, and they walked hand-in-hand along the river. Courf had stopped them halfway across the bridge and wrapped himself around Jehan from behind. Jehan loves juxtaposition and the warmth of his love all around him is crossed with the snap of cold across his face and he loves it.

“We should go to Paris,” he murmurs, looking at the river. He loves rivers. They’re like heartbeats in cities and he loves them. “I want to see the Seine. I want to go to Notre Dame. I want you to kiss me on the Eiffel Tower.”

He can feel the muscles of Courfeyrac’s cheek move as he smiles. “Let’s go to Paris, then,” he says.

Jehan smiles and sighs, tucking himself further into Courfeyrac’s hold and wondering yet again at how happy he is. How in love. How comfortable and content and _happy_. He never realized life could be like this, that he could love someone this much.

Courfeyrac’s lips press against his temple, and then tickle as he whispers, “We should talk about getting married.”

It feels to Jehan like his stomach has completely dropped. “What?” he gasps, leaning to the side so he can gape at Courfeyrac, who smiles tenderly back at him.

“Not right _now_ ,” he mutters. “I mean we’re both still in school and everything, so no, not _now_. But someday, maybe. I’m just saying we should talk about it.”

“You want to get married?” Jehan asks, his eyes like saucers.

“ _Maybe_ ,” Courfeyrac says again, still smiling. Then he laughs softly. “Come on, love, please don’t freak out, I’m just saying we should talk about it. Not that we should rush off to the chapel immediately. Or even that we should do it at all. But we’ve been together a year and I am desperately in love with you and never ever want to be separated from you, so it’s a conversation we should maybe approach. Hypothetically. Like, do you even want to be married someday?”

“To you?”

Courfeyrac laughs again. “Well, I was asking generally, but yeah, I’m not _really_ asking you if you want to marry some other guy. Although,” he adds, “if you do, I would hope you’d tell me.”

A little smile finally starts to cross Jehan’s face. “You want to talk about marrying me,” he breathes, that warmth spreading all over him now, under his skin, into his bones, his marrow.

Courfeyrac nods.

“Okay,” Jehan says, shifting his hands around his mochaccino and grinning. “We should talk about it.”

Courfeyrac’s lips on his forehead, the cup in his hands, the word _marriage_. Warmth.

Jehan doesn’t feel much of the cold at all anymore.

 

Enjolras usually gets out of bed about two and a half hours before this, but he’s still trying to show Grantaire how important he is — especially after the incident three days ago when Enjolras had come home bloody and Grantaire had been scared shitless. Besides, the warm weight of his boyfriend, who is wearing nothing in his sleep and keeps mumbling something which sounds suspiciously like Enjolras’ name, is kind of nice.

His dark hair is all over his face, and Enjolras reaches over to brush it away, then ends up carding fingers through soft curls as Grantaire snorts and blinks awake, looking up at Enjolras and smiling delightedly.

“Well,” he mumbles, his voice low with sleep, “this is a sweet surprise.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asks.

“You’re never here when I wake up,” Grantaire tells him, pushing himself onto his side and pressing a kiss to Enjolras’ bicep as he does.

“That’s because you wake up at ten-thirty in the morning,” Enjolras says, “and I usually have work to do.”

Grantaire smiles. “You don’t have work today?”

“Not right now.”

That smile becomes catlike. “Really?”

Enjolras leans down to kiss his cynic’s forehead. “You should brush your teeth,” he murmurs against Grantaire’s skin. “I’m going to start the shower.”

Grantaire nearly trips over the sheets in his rush to follow Enjolras out of bed.

 

By lunch time, Courfeyrac and Jehan are back home. Courfeyrac makes soup and spends the next twenty minutes trying to eat it (and get Jehan to eat) with Jehan continuously kissing his face.

But Jehan can’t stop. Because his love is overflowing. Because he knew his boyfriend loved him, and he knew is boyfriend was in love with him, but he didn’t know his boyfriend was so in love with him that he’d already thought about marrying him. And now he can’t stop kissing his boyfriend because Courfeyrac is so good and so wonderful and wants to talk about maybe someday being his husband.

So eventually, Courfeyrac gives up on the soup and grabs Jehan around the waist, kissing him hard on the mouth and hoisting him up until Jehan’s legs wrap around him, and then carries him back into the bedroom, falling onto the bed on top of him.

Jehan makes a happy _mmm_ sound as Courfeyrac’s mouth trails down his throat and Courfeyrac’s fingers start unbuttoning his jeans. He moves slowly, languidly, slipping Jehan’s jeans down off his hips and then off entirely and dropping them on the floor as he licks and bites and sucks his way across Jehan’s collarbone, making a delightful, tingling sort of warmth pool in the pit of Jehan’s stomach and the base of his spine.

“How long have you been thinking about it?” Jehan asks breathlessly as he tugs at Courfeyrac’s sweater.

“About marrying you?” Courfeyrac asks, lifting his mouth from Jehan’s skin and his arms to allow Jehan to pull off both his sweater and his shirt, and then slipping both of his hands under Jehan’s sweater. “About two months, I guess.”

“Two months?” Jehan gasps and Courfeyrac purrs, crawling up to pull Jehan’s sweater over his head and kiss his mouth.

“I love you,” he breathes against Jehan’s lips, “so much. I had no idea how much I could love you until I realized that I literally love you even more with every day that goes by. I can’t believe how lucky I am that you love me too. And I just want to love you forever and to kiss you every day and touch you and love you for the rest of my whole life.” He smiles, and it’s dazzling, and Jehan can’t breathe. “You are the love of my life, Jean Prouvaire,” Courfeyrac whispers.

“And you are the love of mine,” Jehan answers breathlessly.

They don’t say anything after that. They don’t need to. Courfeyrac slips out of his own jeans, running his tongue down the center of Jehan’s body from his throat to his stomach before hooking his fingers under the waistband of Jehan’s boxers and pulling them off, kissing his hip bones as he does.

Jehan makes a high, moaning sound when Courfeyrac’s warm, wet mouth encompasses him. Courfeyrac has always been good at this, but the year he’s spent with Jehan has so tuned him in to the little poet’s wants and moods and desires that he knows exactly every little touch and lick and movement that will drive him wild. And Jehan is making choked, gasping noises of pleasure and his arms are raising above his head so he can grip the headboard for stability as Courfeyrac’s mouth drives him to high heaven.

When he comes to shuddering orgasm, Courfeyrac smiles and swallows and kisses a trail back up his body to his mouth, where Jehan lazily returns his kiss as he tries to come back to earth. When he manages to, he suddenly loops his legs around Courfeyrac and jerks, flipping them so that he’s lying on top of Courfeyrac now, who lets out a low breath.

Jehan kisses Courfeyrac and reaches for the bedside table, where the lube was left last night, then hands it to Courfeyrac and lightly trails his lips over his face.

When Courfeyrac’s slicked fingers slide gently into him, Jehan gasps. He’s sitting up now, straddling Courfeyrac’s hips. Fingers are soon replaced and Jehan is clenching around Courfeyrac, who moans.

They move together, familiar with this, _good_ at this, and when Courfeyrac reaches his climax, he curls up off of the bed and bites down of Jehan’s arm, bringing Jehan with him.

Jehan sighs and sinks down next to his boyfriend, cuddling up to his sweat-glistening side and laying kisses on his chest. Courfeyrac just uses the top sheet to clean them both off and then tosses it off the bed, pulling the comforter over them as Jehan nuzzles his neck.

“I think I need a nap,” Jehan says happily.

Courfeyrac giggles. “I think I need a Gatorade,” he says. “But a nap sounds good, too.”

“Do we have dinner plans?” Jehan is asking, but his eyes are closed as he turns his face into Courfeyrac’s chest.

“That’s supposed to be a surprise,” Courfeyrac tells him, tightening his arms around that little form.

“Ah,” Jehan answers, “so we _do_.”

Courfeyrac smirks. “Not until eight,” he says. “Plenty of time for a nap.”

Jehan sounds already half asleep as he sighs, “Good.”

 

When Combeferre calls Enjolras, _begging_ him to come out of whatever hibernation he’s in, it’s four in the afternoon.

“And Joly and Bossuet are still arguing, and Feuilly is still in my living room,” Combeferre finishes his spiel. “ _Please_ , Enjolras, I can’t do this alone anymore.”

“No, you’re absolutely right,” Enjolras answers, running his hand through Grantaire’s curls as Grantaire leans in to press his face possessively against Enjolras’ shoulder. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He pauses and glances down at the man biting down on his shirt. “Grantaire might come, too.”

“I don’t care who comes as long as I’m not alone here anymore,” Combeferre says. “Bahorel just showed up and I don’t know if he and Feuilly got in a fight or something, but they’re just _glaring_ at each other, and evidently this is a _Courfeyrac_ problem that I cannot inform on.”

“All right, we’ll be there in ten,” Enjolras says, and then hangs up.

Grantaire pouts. “We have to go somewhere?” he whines.

“Just to Combeferre’s,” Enjolras answers, standing and hauling Grantaire up with him. “Come on, vacation’s over, put your pants on.”

 

Dinner is lovely and delicious and expensive and Courfeyrac insists on getting dessert and through the entire thing one of them has hands on the other, stroking patterns into legs and palms and wrists. They hold hands as they walk back to the car and Jehan pulls Courfeyrac into a dark corner to kiss him secretively like all truly good things should be kissed.

Back at home. Jehan puts on one of Courfeyrac’s favorite movies and they curl into each other on the couch. Jehan falls asleep about halfway through the film and Courfeyrac is ridiculously content to just hold him as he sleeps, occasionally pressing soft little kisses into his hair.

When the credits start to roll, Jehan wakes up and Courfeyrac doesn’t even let him fully open his eyes before he kisses him. Jehan smiles against his lips.

“What a wonderful anniversary this was,” Jehan sighs, cuddling even closer. It’s eight minutes to midnight now, so their little bubble of time alone together is nearly over.

Courfeyrac brushes his nose against Jehan’s and makes a noise of agreement. “Not quite over,” he whispers, slipping his hand under Jehan’s shirt.

Jehan giggles. “You know they’ll be breaking down our door as soon as the clock strikes midnight,” he says as Courfeyrac bites at his ear and pulls at his clothes. “Coaches turning to pumpkins, horses turning to mice.”

“I like pumpkins,” Courfeyrac growls and Jehan grins and gives in.

 

At midnight exactly, there’s a knock on the door. When Courfeyrac swings it open, he sees all seven of his friends waiting eagerly on the other side, and they see Courfeyrac in nothing but his boxers with Jehan in the background, wrapped in a comforter and what looks like nothing else, his hair falling out of his braid and into a flushed, happy face.

“Jehan and I are going to have sex again,” Courfeyrac announces bluntly.

“It’s midnight,” Enjolras answers. “Your twenty-four hours are up.”

“I recognize and acknowledge the truth of your statement,” Courfeyrac tells him politely, “and anyone who wishes is now free to air their grievances with me or my compatriot. But they will have to do so while said compatriot and I are having sex. Who’s first?”

He’s not really surprised when they all leave, mumbling obscenities at him under their breath. Throwing the door shut and turning back to Jehan, he thinks he’s really going to have a shit storm to deal with in the morning. But for tonight, he has a gorgeous, brilliant, brave man who loves him standing right in front of him without any clothes on.

Tomorrow can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE AMOUNTS OF LOVE AND KISSES to ani [truethingsproved] and chesh [mybelovedcheshire] for their help with this one. this took me DAYS and is absurdly long and hopefully it’s worth it. <3


End file.
